Two Poems


Andrea Werblin

This Isn't It

It is customary in the Western world
for one person to impose himself on another
as if imprinting a cell of film, as if saluting
his mirror-image on an alternate, hapless face
could possibly ever end well.

The trick is will you just quit looking
at yourself? The truth is no matter
what data commingles, no one ever
finds Florida in anyone they fuck.

How we form is I agree to your prowess,
its rank cells in un-uniform measure.
You respect the sickness in me.
In turn I promise to hover over
your bravado-shrinking daylights
as a shape, then as no shape,
then immutable air.



North by Northwest

Lesson of do not deny the havoc-stained alehead
his human capacity for rain. Who could know
the Japanese garden would be so fickle?
It was all spirited stone and salmon
and then somebody got hurt.

I was half-hoping it would happen then,
the lurch in our favor, the irreversible,
irascible clicking of mandates plus romance.

Lesson of stop watching, milling.

What lush unfettered glee I forgot to manufacture.
What flaming tailpipe disguised as a man did not
turn nice despite raising every pint,
And here’s to the Aurora Boring Alice!
Here’s to the long tail of light,

the panhandle
          signifier
                   mudstorm
of what was supposed to happen.